


Don't Feel Like Dancing

by Etheostoma



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: But They're Living Together Post Canon So, Fluff, If You Squint - Freeform, Living Together, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Slash, Smut, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 14:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etheostoma/pseuds/Etheostoma
Summary: Demons dance.Angels don’t—except, of course, for one angel in particular.





	Don't Feel Like Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo, this began as a little song-based drabble that wasn’t going to see the light of day....then it turned into 2000-plus words of gratuitous smut. I am totally alright with this turn of events.
> 
> Title from Scissor Sister's "I don't feel like dancin'".

“Crowley _, what_ are you doing?” Aziraphale’s incredulous query carried across their open sitting room and into the hallway beyond, halting one demon solidly in his tracks as he attempted to strut past the doorway unseen.

“Erm…” Crowley floundered, still frozen in an absurd position, arms half-raised, hands splayed outward, and one foot raised halfway in the air. The faint sound of music could be heard trailing from the open bedroom at his back, an absurd mixture of thumping bass, wailing guitar, and operatic vocals just loud enough to carry through the rest of the cottage.

A smile threatened to break across the angel’s face. His lips twitched in a remarkably diligent effort to repress his mirth and spare Crowley an inevitable wave of discomfort at being “caught in the act”, as it were. “You were _dancing,”_ he accused gleefully, his self control giving way and the words bursting from his lips without preamble. His tenuous grasp on any sense of tact crumpled, dissolving into an expression of outright amusement and a poorly-hidden delight that had Crowley squirming beneath his gaze in abject embarrassment.

“So?” he snarked, snapping back into motion and straightening in an instant. Crossing his arms, Crowley glowered across the room at the angel who, until he had caught him in the middle of a rather embarrassing shimmy across the floor, he had believed was safely ensconced in the back study, pouring over a recently-acquired manuscript and oblivious to the world at large. “Demons dance, sometimes.” Eyes narrowing pointlessly behind his sunglasses,for he was well aware that Aziraphale would expect the gesture even behind his darkened lenses, he gave a disgruntled huff and stared somewhere over Aziraphale’s shoulder.

Aziraphale settled back more comfortably in his over-large armchair, hands folded primly in his lap atop his first edition copy of _Dorian Grey,_ which was decidedly _not_ the archaic tome he had supposedly been restoring _. “_ Unlike angels, you mean?” he countered, arching one slim eyebrow in obvious challenge.

Crowley snorted, slipping into the room to lean against the far wall. “Like any angel other than you has even _considered_ dancing.” He snickered, imaging Gabriel or Michael attempting a ballet or tango.

Lips pursed, Aziraphale nodded in concession. “I’ll give you that one, my dear,” he replied, giving a small grin in reply. “But, I’ll have you know _I_ happen to be an excellent dancer!”

Crowley’s lips twitched. “The gavotte doesn’t count,” he said dryly, “and I’ve seen you try to waltz. Things broke, angel—multiple, expensive, _irreplaceable_ things.”

“Hmph.” Setting his book aside with a reverence one typically reserves for a treasured family heirloom, Aziraphale rose from the chair, eyes fixed on the now-smirking demon lurking by the doorway. “I dare say I’ve learned a few… _different_ dances in recent times,” he retorted, staring pointedly toward Crowley and meeting his counterpart’s shaded eyes.

And _oh,_ how the tables had now turned.

One of Crowley’s slim, pale hand rose to grasp his glasses, sliding them slowly off his nose and dropping them carelessly on the floor. “Oh?” Crowley asked softly, and Aziraphale could see his throat bob as he swallowed. “And what might those be?”

Thousands of years of off-and-on companionship coupled with a solid few months of much more…direct interactions had left Crowley incredibly well-tuned to Aziraphale’s body language, and he could feel his unnecessary pulse jump in his throat as the angel languidly stretched and approached him, looking for all the world like the cat who ate the canary.

“Oh, I believe you know,” he teased, stopping _just_ out of reach and smoothing out an imaginary crease in his coat with a flick of his wrist. His eyes trailed up and down Crowley’s lean torso, silently appraising. Slowly, _ever_ so slowly, his sweet smile spread into something much more devious, more _wanting._

Crowley’s body burned hotter than any Hellfire, the amber of his eyes deepening as he shuddered beneath a sudden wave of desire. He twitched, just the barest movement forward, and it was all the warning Aziraphale had before the angel found himself pinned to the wall of the sitting room, Crowley’s lean fingers curled about his wrists and pressing them insistently against the wall beside his head.

“Well,” Aziraphale said dryly, his assumed nonchalance betrayed by the bob of his throat and the rapid fluttering of his pulse beneath Crowley’s fingers, “ _this_ is rather familiar.”

Nose-to-nose, Crowley ghosted his lips across the angel’s cheek, the barest whisper of a kiss gracing his fair skin. “You _like_ it,” he purred knowingly, eyes glinting. “You _want_ it.” His hands trailed down Aziraphale’s arms, one settling at his waist and the other curving about his jaw. His thumb brushed across the angel’s plush bottom lip once, twice, before his grip tightened and he brought their mouths together.

Crowley’s lips were driving and insistent, pressing in to taste and take and tempt, licking into his his angel’s mouth and pulling a moan from deep within Aziraphale's chest. He pulled back, heaving out a great shuddering gasp, and then dove back in, bringing their mouths sharply together and sweeping his tongue across Aziraphale’s lips, tracing first the top, then the bottom, seizing that plush skin and worrying it gently between inhumanly sharp teeth.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale gasped, drawing back as far as the wall would let him, head thudding back into painted paneling, “That’s not fair.”

Crowley’s eyes widened, the whites all but eclipsed by amber, pupils blown dark and wide open. He traced a reverent thumb across Aziraphale’s eyebrow and across his cheek, trailing down and down again to curl about the delicate pulse at his throat. “Why angel,” he hissed, leaning in with a wicked grin, “when am I ever fair?” The hand at Aziraphale’s waist slid to trace delicate patterns across his belly, slipping under layers of clothes to brush across his skin and delighting at the feel of his muscles jumping at his inhumanly cool touch.

Eyes fluttering shut, Aziraphale leaned into Crowley’s caress, drawn in like a moth to a flame, his mouth chasing his demon’s as he teasingly retreated. “Never, love,” he murmured, “and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” His own hands moved from where they had been passively resting against the wall, twining into Crowley’s red locks and tugging, coaxing a groan from the demon’s throat.

He nipped at Crowley’s neck, marveling at the pulse jumping beneath his lips, pulling Crowley’s head back just enough to bare his throat to his questing teeth.

“Why angel,” the demon gasped again, this time in a far different context as his hands slipped upward to snag Aziraphale’s bow tie, “you’re going to leave a mark.” He gave a satisfied sigh and let the tie slip to the floor to pool at their feet, inhaling sharply as Aziraphale bit down, worrying the spot with lips and teeth and sending a delightful array of sensation sizzling through Crowley’s veins.

“That is entirely the point, dearest,” he murmured around his mouthful. Without warning, he leaned back, blowing cool air across the spot and causing Crowley to emit a startled yelp, his eyes completely eclipsed by his wide, wide pupils.

Aziraphale’s his touch was a blazing fire as it danced across Crowley’s skin, sliding down his arms and across his torso, slipping up underneath his soft t-shirt to caress the muscles of his abdomen. The shirt soon found its way to the floor, and the demon shuddered as Aziraphale slipped downward, following the curve of Crowley’s pale neck with his lips, kissing and nipping and leaving a trail of marks as he worked his way along.

“You are everything, my love,” Aziraphale murmured into Crowley’s collarbone. “Everything I ever wanted, everything I ever _needed,_ everything I ever _will_ want or need.” He paused, head bowed, forehead pressed just above Crowley’s rapidly pounding heart. “I only wish I had had the sense to recognize it sooner.”

Slender fingers, slipped beneath Aziraphale’s chin, tilted that much-loved face up and brought those brilliant hazel eyes to bear on slit-pupiled amber. “Oh darling,” Crowley murmured, “how many times must we have this conversation before you accept that I never needed that, never _needed_ more—not as long as I had you in my existence at all.” His thumb swiped across Aziraphale’s cheek, gently at first and then more suggestively, his wide eyes narrowing wickedly as he craftily took control of of the situation, feeding that questing thumb between Aziraphale’s slightly parted lips.

Aziraphale hummed with delight, swiping his tongue across Crowley’s offering, dragging his teeth across the pad of his finger, utterly captivated by Crowley’s answering groan. “My poet, my closet romantic,” he said fondly, slipping to his knees. “How I live to bring you to the point of speechlessness.” His hands wrapped around Crowley’s ribs, smoothed downward over his lateral muscles, trailed across the deep v of his hips to alight on his elaborate belt buckle. Deftly, before Crowley even had time to register his actions, Aziraphale had the belt unbuckled and was sliding Crowley’s jeans to the floor.

They both snickered as the trousers caught at his knees, the sensuality of the moment temporarily lost as Crowley staggered in place, one leg still trapped within the confines of the skintight denim. His laughter quickly turned to a hiss as Aziraphale caught his flailing foot and tugged, freeing him from the jeans before pressing a series of kisses to the shapely calves now bared to him.

Breathing deeply, eyes fluttering closed in a look of abject pleasure he typically reserved for a particularly fine vintage of wine, Aziraphale pressed his nose to the crotch of Crowley’s briefs, a positively _demonic_ smile gracing his lips at Crowley’s answering grown.

“Angel, don’t tease,” he pleaded, hands convulsing in the air beside Aziraphale’s head as he struggled against the urge to seize his lover’s blonde curls and direct him to exactly where he wanted him.

Aziraphale looked up at Crowley, enchanted. “But you beg so nicely,” he said innocently, dipping one hand beneath the waistband of his pants, torturously slow with his movements.

Crowley whined, hips jerking toward Aziraphale. He bit his lip. “I’ll not beg tonight,” he rasped, head rolling to one side to give Aziraphale a long look. He carded one hand through the angel’s curls, gentleness belying the molten desire that currently coursed through his veins. “You initiated this dance—are you going to _finish_ i—“

Before he could even get all the words out of his mouth Aziraphale had his briefs down around his ankles and his mouth on his cock, thumbs pressed against Crowley’s hipbones as he swirled his tongue from base to tip.

“Oooh, that’ssss it, angel,” Crowley hissed, losing his tenuous grasp on his consonants as he strove not to completely lose control. “You’re so good to me, on your kneesss before me even when we both know _I_ should be the one to kneel.” He jerked forward as Aziraphale executed a deft move with his tongue, tracing the underside of Crowley’s cock with his tongue, swirling up and around the tip and sliding back down to take him completely into his mouth.

Their dance superseded the physical, as it did time and time again whenever and however they came together in this messy, strange, _beloved_ human ritual. They were united body and soul, one kindred spirit to another, joined far more intimately than just this physical dance. Their very essences brushed, seeking out each other, melded and combined and fused—far, far more than just this one, fleeting sensuous slide of skin.

Crowley’s hands flexed again and then sank unhesitatingly into Aziraphale’s hair, holding him in place as he thrust into his mouth, his pace stuttering up as his angel took him in deep and swallowed, eyes closed in rapture as Crowley found his release.

Joined as they were, he could feel it just as much as if _he_ were Crowley, that brilliant, excruciating pleasure that fissured through them both and threatened to shatter them, leaving them nothing but scattered pieces so alike it would be impossible to match them back to two unique beings rather than the single entity they became.

Reverently, Crowley sank to his knees, smoothing a shaking hand across Aziraphale’s temple, marveling at his depthless well of affection for his angel. “You are everything to _me_ as well,” he sighed, catching Aziraphale’s swollen lips with his own, his kiss an offering, a thanks, and a benediction. He shuddered and pressing their foreheads together before allowing his head to sink to Aziraphale’s shoulder, the angel’s arms rising to curl about his slender shoulders and play with the fine hairs at the nape of his neck.

They sat together like this for a long while, folded up within one another, their silence speaking volumes that mere words could not.

Finally, Crowley stirred, drawing back to smile at his angel. It was a brilliant smile, a gentle, genuine thing that so very seldom graced his lips outside of these quiet, intimate moments. “I love you, Aziraphale,” he murmured, inelegant and sloppily romantic, overcome by so many saccharine and non-demonic emotions he could hardly give voice to them.

As his mind gradually returned to the present, his smile shifted, sliding decidedly toward devious, and his hand slid downward to palm Aziraphale through his trousers, smirking outright as the angel broke his silence and gave a breathy gasp. “Crowley!”

“What?” he asked, a paragon of innocence despite his thoroughly-debauched appearance. “You wanted to dance, angel, didn’t you.” He bore down on Aziraphale, pressing him down into the antique rug with a lecherous grin. “Well, then, let me show you  _my_ moves.”

It certainly wasn’t a gavotte, but it was the oldest dance in the books--and in the end, it was the only dance that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley would totally listen to operatic metal just to get on Aziraphale’s nerves, convince me otherwise. 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are love!


End file.
